


'cause it's all in the hands of a bitter, bitter man

by wearethewitches



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: 74th Hunger Games, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Careers (Hunger Games), Child Murder, F/F, F/M, Harm to Children, Haymitch Abernathy in the 75th Hunger Games, Hunger Games, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Katniss never existed, Primrose Everdeen Lives, Primrose Everdeen is Reaped, Secret Children
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 02:55:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14178987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: in a world where Katniss never existed and Haymitch Abernathy and Aster Everdeen had a thing a while back; Primrose Everdeen (Abernathy, but don't tell anyone) is Reaped for the 74th Hunger Games.or, Haymitch's kid gets pulled into the limelight and she has no time for boys playing at murder.





	'cause it's all in the hands of a bitter, bitter man

“ _Prim_ _r_ _ose_ _Everdeen_ _!_ ” 

Prim is a blonde-haired, blue-eyed angel of a girl – fifteen years old and an apprentice under her mother. Her name is called by Effie Trinket in her sparkly Capitol clothes and a small ring surrounds her. Prim’s mother cries out as Peacekeepers come to escort her up to the podium. 

The other boy – the baker’s boy, Peeta Mellark – looks like her. They could be brother and sister, for all anyone could tell, but Prim ignores him when he tries to say hello. Prim is from the Seam. She’s blonde-haired and blue-eyed and soot dirties her skin and threatens her lungs. The scarf around her neck stays up over her mouth, most of the time and she doesn’t dress her best for the Reaping – she dresses as herself, patchy overalls, mouth-scarf and boots. 

Once, when she was twelve, her mother attempted to buy her a pretty blue dress. Prim told her not to waste their money, taking out as many tesserae as they need, instead. 

Effie seems naïve, at first glance, but whenever District Twelve’s resident Victor speaks shit about death, the Games and the blood-mongering Capitolites, there’s a darkness to her eyes that Prim recognises. She’s seen it before, in her mother when she knows their patient isn’t going to survive the night. The difference between Effie Trinket and Aster Everdeen, however, is hidden sorrow beneath wigs, makeup and silly Capitol dresses versus calm acceptance in the face of death. 

 _A cog in the machine_ , Prim thinks of her Escort. _One who has seen Tribute after Tribute in her care die horrible deaths in the Hunger Games._  

Haymitch is the same. He’s just more vocal about his place in life and has let himself go in an attempt to remove himself from the chessboard. Prim thinks that perhaps, to a degree, he has succeeded – just at great personal cost. There’s a reason he lives alone, after all, slowly drinking himself to death. 

That same reason is why Prim is called _Everdeen_ and not _Abernathy_. 

“So pretty, we can do something with that,” Effie says after Prim has washed and showered in the train. So many soaps and products had sat in that bathroom and Prim had used as many as she could, knowing this opportunity wouldn’t come again once she was in the Arena. 

Her moon-white skin is sallow, she knows, but in Prim’s family there were only three mouths to feed. She isn’t emaciated, unlike others in District Twelve. “Yes,” Effie says, taking her cheeks in her hands, leaning in slightly so Prim can smell her flowery perfume, “We can do something with you.” 

“Good,” Prim says and across the carriage against the wall, she sees her biological father look at her for the first time with something other than guilt. 

* * *

During the Tribute Parade, Cinna, their stylist, dresses them in deep red. Prim looks at herself in a mirror and thinks, _I’m drenched in blood_. The suit makes her look taller, clinging to her skin and accentuating her sharp shoulders and sharp jaw. But her hair is tied up in an elaborate braided bun, black ribbons floating behind her in the wind, face painted so artful smoke rises through a grey cloud beside her eyes. 

“You’re on fire,” Cinna says, before Peeta joins her at their chariot, identical, except for a heavy, black cape draped over his right arm. When they’re presented to the Capitol, Prim doesn’t know whether or not to smile until she catches a thrown rose. She peers at it for a few moments, the flower perfectly pristine and as deep a red as her suit. 

Prim doesn’t smile, even as she reaches up to slide the rose through her braided bun. 

“Oh, the crowd loved it! I’ve already got some interested parties looking to see how you do in the interviews,” Effie crows during the evening meal with Peeta and Haymitch, taking her hands and giddily babbling on about other Capitolites with lots of money, willing to sponsor District Twelve’s female Tribute. 

“Good,” Prim repeats, before taking one of her hands back, finishing her dinner of luxurious Capitol food, the bloody slice of steak so rich with juice that she almost feels like she’s going to be sick. Prim makes sure to scrape her plate. 

The next day, Prim changes into her work-out clothes early, heading down to the Training Centre before the sun rises. She investigates the room, skirting around the one other Tribute there with her – District Eleven’s male Tribute, who is tall and broad with strong arms and impassive eyes. Prim eventually asks one of the instructors to correct her knife form, thinking of the human body and where the large veins and delicate organs lie. 

“You’ve got good instincts as to _where_ , but you cannot hesitate,” the instructor says, not kindly nor harshly. “Try again, faster.” 

Prim keeps up the work. The instructor doesn’t even break a sweat – but when she takes a break for water, picking fruits, soft bread and a cup of milk from a table for her breakfast, she watches Eleven’s male Tribute go over and ask for instruction as well. 

More Tributes have filtered in over the past couple of hours – mostly from One, Two and Four. The female Tribute from Three is there, as well as the boy from Eight and Nine’s girl. Prim finishes her morning meal, letting it settle in her stomach while she goes to a survival station, perfecting her fire-making skills and even learning a few new handy tricks. 

At ten o’clock, when they’re supposed appear, the rest of the Tributes – including Peeta – arrive, a Capitol woman giving them the official run-down of the centre. 

“Where did you go?” Peeta questions, when he has the chance to. Prim finishes tying her rope, only then realising she’d done it wrong, before unravelling it. 

“Here,” she replies. “This is the Hunger Games. I need to prepare.” 

In Twelve, Prim was her mother’s apprentice, but her father was a teacher to her as well. He taught her how to skin the rabbits and squirrels her brought in from his secret hunting – _poaching_ – and the difference between good and bad foodstuffs. Her father, however, worked the Mines for them, from early in the morning till well after dark. He wasn’t always around. 

Healing is her real skill. Prim knows how to stitch a man up and clear a wound. She knows the signs of infection, how to stay them and how to stop them. She knows that there’s a large vein in the inside thigh that if pierced, will bleed and bleed until you’re dead, only minutes later. She knows that hamstringing someone is a death sentence, even if you save them and sew them back together – the recovery time alone ruins the persons prospects and chance at working for months. 

“So do I,” Peeta replies. “I need allies.” 

“And you turn to me?” Prim frowns at him. “Why?” 

“Because you came down here. Because you’re from Twelve.” 

“But you’re from the Village,” she says. He looks at her and he is so… _innocent._ Prim has faced death. Prim has had to quicken the end of many of her patients, forget about helping her mother when she was younger. Normal eight year olds didn’t know that the herb she fetched for her mother would send Mr Heather into a daze, blood thinning as her mother’s clean bandages laid to the side, unused. 

This worst this Village boy has seen is a burn from his bread oven. 

Her answer makes him confused. There’s no instant comprehension and perhaps that’s why Prim rolls her eyes and abandons the knot-tying station in favour of the knife instructor again. 

The instructor has two other Tributes with him when she comes up. He glances at her, not stopping in his explanation on how to hold a knife. Prim joins the class, standing in front of the provided dummy, doing what the instructor says and then doing it again and again, faster each time, improving her speed and accuracy. 

* * *

Later, at lunch, she sits at a table and finds herself surrounded by Careers. 

“Glimmer says you’ve been here for a while,” District Two’s male Tribute states, tearing into a filled roll. There’s a certain air around him that attempts to wiggle its way under Prim’s skin. She’s not afraid to think, _dangerous_ as he looks at her with unblinking eyes, cataloguing all the weaknesses he can find. “Got some special skills, Twelve?” 

“I’m a healer,” Prim says, thinking about Peeta’s _I need allies._ Two waits for her to speak more, so she decides she needs to impress them all here, even if it could open up a weakness. “I can patch people up and I can use that against them, too. I know the fastest way to kill you, even if I don’t have the skills yet to back it up.” 

“Huh,” Two’s male watches her for a few moments, before holding his hand out across the table. “Cato. District Two.” 

“Prim. Twelve,” Prim returns, before being introduced to the rest of the Careers. With Cato comes Clove, a small, dark-haired girl with ambition seeping from her pores. One has Glimmer and Marvel and frankly, neither look dangerous, except perhaps how Glimmer’s arms are on show. Prim can see familiar muscle definition, the type that she keeps hidden under her long-sleeved shirt. 

The five of them eat together and train together. Prim is clearly outmatched, but she gives them pointers on what to do if they’re hit like the dummies are. 

“Wrap around knives and arrows – keep them in, don’t tear them out,” she says. “If they hit an artery, you could bleed out. What damaged you is also the cork to your glass bottle.” 

“Wine is our blood,” Glimmer snickers at her own poeticism. 

They aren’t allowed to fight each other in training, apparently, just the instructors. Cato complains, almost starting a brawl with Marvel just to spite the rules. However, they can give pointers and they do, surprisingly. 

“Let your knees relax,” Clove says. “Turn your hips a bit- no, no.” She steps forwards, standing flush behind her. Prim feels a blush rise on her cheeks as Clove leads her into place and immediately, she feels a lot more secure. “There. Think you can remember this?” 

“Yes. Thank-you.” 

“You’re welcome, Twelve.” 

“My name’s Prim,” she says. 

“I know,” Clove says, “Twelve.” 

If it’s possible to reverse a blush, Prim would. Focusing on her dummy and ignoring the deliberate antagonising. Unfortunately, her passive reaction seems to make Clove disappointed. 

“Have you even got a spine, coal catcher?” 

“Yes, I do,” Prim says, before ducking the dummy as it starts an automated fight sequence, twisting around and ram her knife in its neck, through the spinal cord. She meets Clove’s eyes over the dummy’s shoulder. “Thanks again, Two.” 

“…no problem.” 

That afternoon, Prim returns to the Penthouse, exhausted both physically and mentally. In District Twelve, she had some friends, but she just stood around with them at school, listened to them describe their worries and woes. The Careers took up all her attention and Prim had to watch her back at all times – she couldn’t slip up, not once. 

 _At least I’ve started to get some more muscle,_ Prim thinking of dark nights with her step-father when the moon was high, practicing with his bow. It was their own little thing, something which had convinced a young Primrose that this man who was marrying her mother was trustworthy. She was no archery prodigy, but Prim learnt to hold her own and she’ll spend tomorrow in the archery range she saw with Glimmer, who had spoken of such aspirations earlier in the day. 

“You’re not allying with the boy,” Haymitch is waiting for her in her room. Prim, already halfway through taking off her shirt, jumps, jolting back to stand against the door. He looks her up and down, snorting at her protective, guarding arms holding her shirt over her chest. “Not interested in kids, let alone my own. What did the Careers have to say?” 

Prim swallows, shutting her eyes to calm down, tugging her shirt back down. She itches for a shower, stray blonde hairs that had escaped her braids plastered to her head. She just wants to _sleep_. She doesn’t need Haymitch acknowledging her, not when it could put both of them and her parents in danger. 

“I think they’re still deciding. I’m an anomaly. Twelve isn’t…” 

“Twelve isn’t Career-worthy,” Haymitch finishes. “But you are. You can be.” 

“What do I do?” 

“Watch them. Learn them. If they ditch you, either show them why they shouldn’t have to get back in or lie low.” 

“Lying low sounds safer.” 

“Maybe,” Haymitch sips from a silver flash that’s cleaner than Haymitch usually is himself, Prim has to worry if it’s actually his. An engraving catching the light. _L.T._ “But Careers have safety in numbers. There’s the eventual bitch-fight that could come after the bloodbath or way into the game after or right before they finish picking off other Tributes – but still, for a small amount of time, you have others watching your back.” 

Prim nods, Haymitch wandering over. After a few seconds of silence of them standing in front of each other, Haymitch reaches up to knock on her forehead gently. 

"Little woodchuck...give 'em hell while you last, darling." 

Prim nods again. She moves sideways off the door, letting him leave, releasing a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. 

* * *

The next day, Effie has Haymitch drag her from the Training Centre back upstairs for breakfast. She talks about sponsors and the interviews coming up the day after next, telling them – telling Prim and Peeta – how their scores could mean life or death in the Arena, if they needed medicine, tools, food or water. 

“Do either of you have anything to share? Anything that would make the people sympathise or root for you?” 

“No,” Prim says, eyes flickering to Haymitch. He does the same, but unfortunately, quick-witted Effie catches the motion, expression twisting into one of curiosity. 

“…no,” Peeta repeats after her quietly. Prim pities the Village boy for a moment but forces herself not to the next – she can’t afford to care. 

“You’ll want to try chatting with Caesar, have a good conversation with him – he helps the Tributes when he can, though if you do nothing or slip up, even he might not be able to save face.” Effie is sat beside Prim, opposite Haymitch and it gives her the opportunity to grip her hand tightly, all of a sudden, leaning in slightly. “You’re a lovely-faced girl, Primrose. You could be the Capitol’s _darling_ if you only tried.” 

Prim watches her for a moment before pulling her brightest smile, faking that kind of elation in your chest that feels like flying, winking at her. The change startles Effie and her face suddenly becomes _plastered_ with horror and Prim can’t hold it as the Capitol woman looks at Haymitch as if he’d just murdered one of their Tributes himself. _Except…no,_ Prim doesn’t think it’s just horror. _Heartbreak. Fear._  

“Don’t make that face,” Haymitch is quick to order and something must be wrong – something has scared both the adults about her smile. _Do I look murderous? Is there something wrong with my face?_ Prim feels Effie’s hand tighten around hers, but the woman _saves face_ as she calls it, humming in agreement and directing the conversation elsewhere smoothly. 

“A good idea, maybe. Drawing attention isn’t always the best idea, anyway, that smile is…distracting, to say the least.” Effie offers her own smile, consoling and supportive all at the same time before looking to her fellow Tribute. “Peeta! Show me your most _darling_ smile!” 

Peeta isn’t an idiot and Prim shares a look with him after Effie starts going on about photoshoots and popularity ratings, babbling and yet, not letting go of Prim’s hand. Haymitch gets rowdy at one point, standing and walking around the table with a chair, wedging himself between the two women, Prim’s hand being returned to her forcibly. 

“You look to be getting pretty close over here – can I join in the fun?” he smiles, all charm and he winks salaciously at Effie. Prim hears Peeta breathe in sharply and his eyes are wide. Prim frowns and she sees Haymitch in her periphery, arm curling around the back of Effie’s chair. They’re closer than seems polite for colleagues and Prim actually finds herself confused by it. 

 _That’s my father,_ she thinks, the images of Haymitch Abernathy and Crow Everdeen filling her mind. She can't remember how her parents – her mother and step-father – acted around each other, except that they kissed and laughed together, that they were a unit torn apart when Crow died. Seeing Haymitch with Effie, fifteen years old and not a naïve young girl anymore, Prim wonders if they love each other, as strange as a Capitolite loving someone from the Districts sounds. 

 _Does that make her my step-mother?_ Prim looks at Effie, who narrows her eyes at Haymitch's behaviour and thwacks him on the chest with her napkin. 

* * *

The interviews come and so do new silly costumes to go with them. Prim is dressed in blue, Cinna confusing her by placing her in a suit – sort of, at least. 

"I want the Capitol to think of a previous Victor," Cinna says, smiling slightly and if Prim hadn't seen Haymitch's horrified face later, she wouldn't have realised Cinna meant _him_. 

Sitting in the dark grey slacks, fiddling with the rolled-up sleeves of her blue collared shirt, Prim decides to ignore what Effie said, to go all out. _I might as well_ ** _try_** _to get_ _sponsors this way_ _,_ she thinks, _I won't get them at all, otherwise._  Prim slams on her half-sneering smirk, eyes bright as she kicks back in the interview chair, slumping back with her legs up on the convenient pouffe – she tries to act like she thinks her father would have and her impression seems to make the crowd go wild.

_Hopefully they like me._

"Well, you certainly are a sight," Caesar starts, looking vaguely surprised. Prim flicks her braid up behind her shoulder, cracking her hands. "No skirts for Twelve, this year, I see!" 

"No," Prim replies coolly, still smirking. "What did you think of the other Victors, Mr Flickerman? I thought some of them were downright ridiculous, trying to get into Capitol graces." 

"You're sly," Caesar grins, before leaning forwards. "But I have to mention, I _have_ to – were you aware your outfit this evening is inspired by your own Mentor's, from _his_ interviews?" 

"It did cross my mind," Prim admits, shrugging, confidence dipping momentarily. _Is this a mistake?_ Swallowing, Prim leans forwards, tucking her feet under her chair, gripping the edges with her hands. "It's the Quarter Quell next year though. Maybe thing's will go in my favour so I can be your spectacle again next year – Twelve only has one Victor, after all." 

Prim watches the host and from his face, the host seems to agree with her, belatedly nodding his head and looking to the crowd with an exaggerated smile, doing his job. 

"She's right, though, isn't she?" 

 _He's not stupid, Effie was right,_ Prim thinks, before letting him guide the conversation. He talks about her mother being the town healer, questioning her about her apprenticeship position. 

"I know field medicine, yeah. I think it might help me in the Games, definitely. I'm certainly not afraid of blood." 

Caesar chuckles before standing, taking her hand and throwing it in the air. "Primrose Everdeen, from District Twelve!" 

As soon as she's off the stage, Haymitch drags her back up to the Penthouse, furious expression saying it all.


End file.
